


Crying Over Yuuri

by Senket



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, OR IS IT, Requited Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, and wolfram likes to explode instead of dealing with things, don't ask me things, so thank god for Conrad?, yuuri likes to avoid things until they explode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: Wolfram would never dream of crying in front of Yuuri, but that doesn't mean he can always stop himself around those close to him.
Relationships: Wolfram von Bielefeld/Shibuya Yuuri
Comments: 39
Kudos: 277





	1. Elizabeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after episode 45

Walking through fields of flowers with Lord Von Bielefeld brought bittersweet pangs to Elizabeth’s heart. The familiarity of it felt dream-like, harkening back to a time when they had been close compatriots, but his eyes were distant as they fixed on the sun. Being here with her… it didn’t affect him in the way she had hoped, though he treated her with warmth and kindness. Without Yuuri to fight about, he had reverted to the sweet, baby-cheeked boy she remembered, but she couldn’t remember the lassitude with which he moved.

They sat beside each other on a bench at the center of Cecelia’s garden of flowers, the sun glinting in Wolfram’s golden hair. He had always shone brightly in her mind, but he seemed dulled now, quietly retreated into himself.

It struck a sour chord in her. Wolfram had always been a mazoku with strong feelings, making fire the perfect element for her, so the quiet restraint he was showing now felt unnatural to her on a face she had seen laughing and crying but rarely so pensive.

“Ne, Oniichan?” she ventured softly, her fingers stroking the delicate petals of the Serious Gwendal she held. “Can you explain something to me?”

“Hm?” His head tilted towards her, a wavy lock of golden hair spilling over his high cheekbone. He had grown so beautifully, and she was forced to suppress a pang of longing. Wolfram had made his preference clear. Except: had he?

“When we were fighting,” she asked him, too embarrassed to watch his face, staring at the flower in her hands, “I asked you to admit you loved the Maou. It’s obvious you do, so… why didn’t you just say it? I don’t understand.”

Wolfram’s head hung, his expression hidden by a curtain of hair. His agile fingers tightened on the edge of the bench, knuckles paling. He hesitated, feet dragging lightly against the cobblestone pathway. “Yuuri…” he breathed in shallowly, the air trapped high in his chest. “He… doesn’t like hearing it.”

Elizabeth frowned, her nose wrinkled, abandoning the flower between her fingers to stare at Wolfram’s golden head. “He doesn’t like it?” She echoed disbelievingly. What man, woman, child wouldn’t want Wolfram von Bielefeld to announce his endless devotion to all that would listen? Her dislike of the king only grew as Wolfram shook his head, his shoulders slumped. Beaten. Wolfram said nothing more, but Elizabeth wasn’t ready to abandon the subject. “Why not?”

Wolfram shrugged. Again, it took him several moments to answer, searching for words that could explain the wound he carried within him. He tilted his head suddenly to the sky, sucking in a hard breath. “Because he doesn’t love me.”

The grip tightened suddenly, crushing the stem of the flower she held. “How can he not love you?” she asked heatedly, stormy ire bending her beautiful face.

He met her gaze, his vibrant green eyes as always showing every emotion he felt. He was beautiful even as they glazed over, sparkling- even if it was pain that lit them up. “Yuuri doesn’t think that men can love each other the way a woman and man can,” he told her quietly, his mouth twisted improbably into a smile. It hurt her to see it.

She frowned, perplexed. “But… the king supports mazoku human unions. Surely-”

“Believe me,” Wolfram interrupted her, his voice low and ragged, “the irony is not lost on me.” He sank into himself, a delicate long-fingered hand covering his eyes. He shook his head slowly, his lips stretching back towards his ears. “Damn that Yuuri,” he choked, angrily wiping at his eyes with his jewel-blue sleeve. “It doesn’t matter what I do. I can give him my loyalty and my sword and my life, I can dedicate myself entirely to his every whim, I can make myself as charming and sweet as he wants and it still won’t be enough. I’m a man and I can’t change that.”

Elizabeth was on her feet, her fists clenched angrily at her sides. Fire burned inside her, leaping hot at every tear her beloved Wolfram shed. “And he dares to trap you in your engagement?”

Wolfram snorted. His hand dragged down his face to cover his mouth, revealing his red-rimmed but now dry eyes. His emotions had always been near the surface. She had been the defender and protector of tearful Wolfram, and the rumors of a hot-tempered, extroverted fiance of the King had sounded wild to her. She felt the old feelings rise again, as they had been lately, infuriated that anyone would sully his reputation, make the soft-hearted boy she had known out to be a jealous and petty demon.

“He’s too much of a wimp to ask Von Christ how to do it properly.” His hand pulled back from his face, pushing his hair back before landing on his knee. “I’m not going to help him.” He sounded hollow. “I love him,” he said aloud, the sheen returning to his eyes with the strangled admission as he stared at the sky, “and I’m going to stay close to him as long as I can.”

Elizabeth deflated slowly, the muscle between his eyebrows relaxing. She sat back down, her hands twisting together. He had clearly made his choice. Wolfram could be very stubborn. “Does the king know he hurts you so?”

Wolfram released his breath, closing his eyes. The sun heated his skin, rosying his cheeks. “No.”

“How can he not?” She hissed.

“I’ve long learned to let hurt become anger instead of tears,” he told her, his lips twisting into a bitter smile, his emerald eyes brilliant as they reflected the sun. “It wouldn’t do for a Lord of Bielefeld to cry all the time, now, would it?”

His words lanced through her tender heart. She threw her arms around him, squeezing him to her. He turned his head towards her, though it was bent down, and she eagerly shifted forward to press their foreheads together.

“Besides,” he continued softly, whispering secrets to his confidante, “I would never cry in front of him. That wimp couldn’t take it.” She was beginning to think he used that term whenever saying his name would be too painful. “He’d panic and try to fix the problem just to get me to stop.”

“Then perhaps you should!”

“Unless he can change his inclinations, there’s nothing to be done.” His hand curled around the back of her head briefly before he pulled away and stood, straightening his sword belt. “I hardly want to give him another excuse to avoid me,” he continued, his voice returning to a neutral.

He glanced at her a moment, shyly, before he rolled his shoulders back and settled into his uniform, so to speak. He looked like a young Shinou like that, if only his eyes were blue, regal, a prince formed from dreams. The concept that anyone could be experience the selfless devotion of a man like him and somehow not want it was entirely foreign to her. Unthinkable.

Meeting the Maou’s Other Self had only solidified to her that he understood nothing. Punishing his fiance by making him go on a date with her when Wolfram loved him this much? It was cruel.

She was thankful, but it didn’t erase the unintended heartlessness of his decision.

She stood slowly, gripping her own fingers as she faced him. “Will you write to me?”

There was a pause. He faced her directly, his hand settled on the pommel of his sword. She stepped forward and fixed his windswept hair. “If you insist,” he answered with a half-smile, his gaze soft.

She beamed, squeezing his fingers and stepping away.

“Let me know if His Majesty ever needs to be beaten.”

His disbelieving laugh made her smile at last.


	2. Conrad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfram finds a Certain List

Rain splattered against the windows, making Bloodpledge Castle feel almost restrictive as Wolfram moved along its halls. How was it possible for maids to be incredibly nosy and always around at the worst time yet simultaneously impossible to find when needed? Wolfram muttered nastily to himself, stomping about the castle as he searched. He threw open the door to a tea room and found Doria, Sangria and Lasagna bent over a scrap of paper and arguing heatedly, tallying up points, scratching out words and writing new text with a scratchy quill. They certainly didn’t notice him.

His mouth twisted in annoyance at their flagrant disrespect. He slammed his hand down on the paper between them, practically puffing smoke from his nostrils as their eyes slowly shifted to him.

“Lord von Bielefeld!” One of them hiccupped. They all scrambled to stand in a line, bowing apologetically. Sangria looked particularly nervous, her eyes fixed on the paper beneath his fingers. All the more reason to keep it.

“Lady Cecelia requires you,” he growled at them, using his mother’s official title to scare a little decorum into the maids. They were clearly given too much leeway.

They moved as one to the door, though all three glanced back at him. “Um, excuse me...” Sangria started nervously.

“Out!” He barked impatiently. He huffed when they all disappeared out the door. Being made an errand boy was already insult enough, but their response to him as if he were just some other resident of the castle and not Wolfram von Bielefeld, fiance to the Maou, dug the dagger in.

Didn’t he at least deserve the base level of deference and respect?

Wolfram took hold of the crinkled paper, curious to see what had so affected their manners. He stilled at the list of twenty or so names, marked with shuffles and rewrites, a few dates scratched out and replaced as revisions were made. A list topped with a doodle of the crown sitting atop a heart.

A list in which he came in third.

Fury met with insult, roaring to hot life under his sternum, but even that fire was not enough to melt the cold ache that had plunged into his core. The paper smouldered gently between his fingers before finally catching fire, and his green eyes stared unblinkingly as the flames slowly ate up the shape of his own name.

He let the ashes fall to the table, hollow-eyed as he trapped the hurt inside of him, wrapping it in a fog of anger where no one could see it. He knew it wouldn’t last long. Wolfram went outside, where the rain would disguise him.

He was discovered far more quickly than he would’ve liked, alone in a small courtyard as he went through basic sword fighting drills. A sword swept through the side of his vision. He spun on his heel to meet it, gritting his teeth at the weight of it against his own. A burst of power allowed him to fling it back, where it returned smoothly to its owner’s scabbard. He took a step back, panting from exertion, and lowered the point of his own sword, looking down at the cobblestone floor.

“What’s wrong?” His brother asked, softly, his voice measured and kind as always. Wolfram turned at an angle, facing the exercise dummy he had been destroying with his blade. It was long past the time he had hated Conrad for being half human, from the moment his childhood mind had realized his middle brother would die decades if not centuries before him. But Wolfram was always finding new wounds, he thought as he glared stubbornly at the straw mannequin.

“Nothing.” He rearranged his stance, gripping his sword with both hands and holding it in a direct point. He speared it forward with a shout, but before it could reach straw, it was knocked aside by another blow of Conrad’s sword.

“What’s wrong?” The taller man asked again, undaunted by the furious glare Wolfram shot his way.

“Nothing,” Wolfram growled. He swiped his blade sideways towards Conrad; the expert swordsman met it with bare effort.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” He screamed, rushing forward. Conrad brought his across his front, pointed down, deflecting it in a way that left Wolfram totally exposed as his sword flung out. The tip of Conrad’s blade hovered over his sternum. Wolfram lifted his head to glare at Conrad but found the brunet staring back at him with worry bending his brow. He faltered, dropping his head again, sopping wet hair hiding his emerald eyes.

His sword returned to its scabbard, his hand hanging on the pommel limply.

“Did you know there’s a betting pool about who Yuuri will end up with?” He asked softly, the splatter of raindrops swallowing most of his voice.

Conrad hesitated before taking a step closer, sheathing his sword. He stood before Wolfram, his hands resting loosely at his sides. Wolfram had always been a proud child, precocious if particularly volatile emotionally. Watching Wolfram trade his tears for anger had been a strange moment in Conrad’s life, and he’d never since really known how to handle Wolfram’s outbursts. Were they injured pride or injured heart? It totally changed the way people’s words would affect him, even if his reaction looked the same from the outside. “Yozak told me,” he confessed softly.

“Yeah?” Wolfram snorted, his tone hard and his eyes narrowed as they stared at the flagstone walls. “Who’s he betting on?”

“I asked him not to.”

“So you think he didn’t?” Wolfram sneered, refusing still to meet Conrad’s eyes.

“I’m sure he did,” Conrad sighed. Even as close as they were, Yozak had secrets from him. He doubted there was anyone at all who knew all of Yozak’s secrets, or even that all of them were known by anyone but Yozak himself. “But I certainly don’t know for who.”

Conrad reached forward, resting his hand on Wolfram’s shoulder. His younger brother slapped away the touch immediately.

“What’s wrong?” He tried again.

“You’re winning,” Wolfram spat, his thick hair sopping, dripping cold water down his neck and into his clothes.

Conrad was silent for several moments, regarding the young Mazoku. It wasn’t the first time he’d found Wolfram crying in the rain, but it had been decades since he’d experienced it, and he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for a time he could cradle his younger brother in his arms and hush him to sleep. “Even if you weren’t engaged, I would never think of His Majesty in that way.”

“Maybe _you_ wouldn’t, since you never do _anything_ wrong,” Wolfram growled, his eyes hidden by his hair and his fists clenched and shaking. Conrad frowned and ignored the jab, carefully and slowly reaching again for his brother. This time Wolfram didn’t knock his hand away as it settled on his shoulder, his breast heaving as he sucked in and held a shaky breath.

“Wolfram?” Conrad asked softly, bending down so that his forehead met the crown of Wolfram’s head. The blond shivered, wiping needlessly at his wet eyes, his lips twisted in an angry grimace even as he cried.

“Lady Flynn’s in second place,” he whispered, his voice cracking on her name.

Oh. _Oh._ Conrad swept Wolfram against him, wrapping both of his arms tightly around his brother. Wolfram’s shoulders hitched upwards. His hands fisted in Conrad’s uniform, his head pressed into wet brown fabric. He screamed into it; it dissolved into strangled sobs. Wolfram’s legs half-collapsed under him, shaking as Conrad’s solid grip held him in place.

Lady Flynn. A beautiful, youthful widow, kind and intelligent, the foremost of Yuuri’s human allies, a woman who visited them at every function, an equal to Yuuri if he could have any equal. Wolfram had gone on a desperate journey to find the fiance they had thought (for a moment, but the most terrifying and painful moment of Wolfram’s life) dead, saved him from a cliff, and yet-

The double-black boy’s attention remained mostly focused on her even as Wolfram-

And it wasn’t even that Yuuri was cruel, he just didn’t think about Wolfram’s feelings, or his ache or his needs or-

He didn’t think about Wolfram at all.

Conrad didn’t say anything, holding Wolfram until his tears exhausted themselves.


	3. Cecilie

They were kingless. And at the very end, Wolfram had broken his own promise to himself not to cry in front of Yuuri.

What else could he have done?

He was the one who had told Yuuri to leave, to go back to his family. And wasn’t it better this way? He’d never have to meet the woman who would stand at Yuuri’s side, he’d never have to bear the destruction of his reputation as their engagement dissolved, he’d never have to attend any function as Lord Von Bielefeld, six chairs down from Yuuri and holding everything trapped inside, he’d never-

But.

Without speaking, Yuuri had turned to run into the portal back to Earth and Wolfram hadn’t been able to stop himself calling out to him. What had he expected? Some acknowledgement, an apology? A goodbye? No, it was what he had wanted. Some childish, hopeful, bleeding part of him hoping that Yuuri would stay- for him?

A ridiculous fantasy.

In the darkness of the Maou’s room, the heavy curtains drawn against the streaming sunlight, Wolfram sat on the floor with his back against the massive bed. He had dragged the covers from the mattress, wrapping himself up in the dark fabric. Only his green eyes were visible, rimmed with red as he quietly stared at the floor. His muscles were starting to numb from the long, motionless hours as he lulled against the wood.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say the sheets smelled like Yuuri- they smelled like all three of the people that had slept in that massive bed, an amalgamation of their perfect(ly pretend) family. Was that better or worse?

The door creaked open, a shaft of daylight illuminating the floor. He tightened his cocoon further, shamefully ducking his head. Someone sat next to him, their body pressing into the shape of his comforter. A lithe arm slipped around his shoulder, pulling him in tightly. He closed his eyes at the delicate scent of his mother’s favorite perfume, his breaths deep and slow.

“Oh Wolfie,” she gasped, stroking his head tenderly despite the sheet that hid his golden hair. “I never wanted this feeling for you. I so wished your first love would be your only one.”

“Is that why you always hit on my fiance?” Wolfram mumbled unhappily. Despite his complaint, he relaxed into her touch, sinking down and leaning his cheek against her shoulder.

“I wanted to be sure what kind of man he was!” She exclaimed dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. The free one, of course. Wolfram snorted quietly. She snuggled closer to her son on the floor, slipping her heels off. “I didn’t want you to be caught up in the web of someone nefarious.”

“Everyone knew Yuuri wasn’t ever going to marry me,” Wolfram retorted softly. He managed the words just fine, and he’d thought them for a while, but hearing them aloud was different. He twisted into Cecilie’s side, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, shivering. She turned to face him completely, wrapping both her arms around the cocooned shape and holding him tightly against her chest.

“The king was confused,” Cecilie told him in an authoritative voice, a clash from the soft way she stroked his back. “He could do no better than you.”

“But that doesn’t mean he loved me,” he hiccuped, his throat strained, and with that crack-

The rest of it pushed out, too, a flood of hopeless hurt pouring out of him. He clung to his mother as she held him, swaddled. He sobbed like a child, full-throated cries as if the world was shaking apart. She held onto him through it, her brows bent together, her own eyes misty as she bore the pain of her youngest son. Cecilie knew very well what it was like to have your heart broken.

Eventually his cries subsided, and he lulled sleepily against her, his eyes glassy. He hardly fought back when she straightened him up and pulled away slightly, taking his heart-shaped face into her hands. She wiped away the tear tracks from his cheeks with her thumbs, smiling sadly at the young mazoku. She brushed his bangs back tenderly, quietly reenlivened by the shy trust in his green eyes.

“I’m afraid you can’t stay here alone in the dark much longer, Wolfie. Someone needs you.”

“Who would need me?” He muttered sulkily, lowering his gaze to the floor, downcast.

“A little girl who just lost one of her fathers.”

Wolfram’s eyes immediately filled with tears again as he squeezed his legs to his chest, tightening the covers around him. “I don’t have the authority to adopt her, you know that.”

“Leave that decision up to the next Maou,” Cecilie sniffed, tossing her heavy curls behind her delicate shoulder. “For now she says you’re her father, so you are. Unless you’d rather not be?” She added haughtily, an eyebrow cocked. Wolfram shook his head slowly, a bubble of disbelief buoying him. “Good,” Cecilie added, though her gaze was more tender now, a small smile curving her red-painted lips. “I’ll let her in now.”

She kissed Wolfram’s forehead before elegantly rising to her feet, snatching up her heels and walking soundlessly across the wooden floor. She opened up the door, Greta’s little shadow casting into the room.

“Is Papa Wolfram ok?” Greta asked furtively, her eyes large and pleading as she peered up at her not-quite-grandmother.

Cecilie crouched before the girl, taking her hands into her own. “Not yet. Do you think maybe you can help?”

Greta nodded repeatedly, quickly and hard, and the moment Cecilie released her she raced to Wolfram, throwing her arms out. He tossed the covers aside just in time to catch her against his chest. She flung her arms around his neck, crying noisily. “I’m sorry you’re sad, Papa! I’m sad too!” He wrapped the covers around them both, holding Greta cradled in his lap, his head bent down against her small shoulder. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?!”

He swallowed, nodding weakly against her, tightening his hold.

“Of course I will. They’d have to tear me away, and even then fighting and screaming.”

“Lady Anissina would never let them!” Greta gasped angrily, pulling her face back just enough to meet Wolfram’s eyes, her own blazing with certainly even wet as they were. Wolfram couldn’t help but laugh at that, though it was wet and shaky. “Or Uncle Gwendel or Uncle Conrad or-” she paused when he kissed her forehead, a little meek as she stared at him through her brown bangs.

“Is it ok if we just stay in here today?” she asked, squirming a little so that she was more comfortable sitting on his legs. “I don’t want to go ride horses or study or anything. It’s too sad.”

“I think everyone will forgive us,” Wolfram answered patiently, his heart soothed by her bright belief.

“Then let’s get in the bed, Papa! This isn’t comfortable at all!”

“Okay, okay.” He let go of the covers, leaning away as Greta directly climbed over him to get onto the massive mattress. He followed her up.


	4. Yuuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri looks at things directly

The sound of crying echoed down the corridor. Puzzled, Yuuri followed the sound, his fingers skimming over hewn stone as he walked. He rounded a corner to find Greta sobbing, clutching her knee. He ran over immediately, slinging his daughter up into his arms.

“Are you okay?” He asked her, alarmed, “what’s wrong?!”

“I fell down the stairs,” Greta mumbled, rubbing her fist over one large eye before looping both arms around Yuuri’s neck. She had indeed skinned her knee on the worn stairs. Torn skin hung limply, wet splotches of blood bubbling out of the wound.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, then, and we’ll take a look, shall we?”

Greta nodded, her curly hair brushing against his cheek, and tucked her head against his shoulder. She was getting harder to carry around, but he was also getting much stronger lately with all the training he’d insisted upon (to get out of Gunter’s clutches), and he quite liked that she still wanted him to do it, so.

They cut through the maou’s room to his bathing chambers, and Greta caught a glance at herself over his shoulder as they passed a mirror.

She was frowning down at the tiles as Yuuri gently washed her knee clean, using his own healing magic to reknit the skin. “There, all better,” he smiled, tapping her nose. She tilted her head up at him, and though her lips tilted upwards in response her eyes were still serious, concerned. “Something else?” he asked awkwardly, tilting his head.

“How come I don’t look pretty when I cry?”

Yuuri stared at her. He blinked once, slowly, confused, tilting his head. Huh? “What?”

“Papa Wolfram looks so pretty when he cries! And it makes my heart squeeze and I just want to make him all better! But when I cry I just look weird.” She peered down at her reflection, poking and prodding at the swollen skin around her eyes.

Yuuri was… having an out of body experience? Suddenly flooded with two completely contrasting thoughts, it took him several stuttering moments to catch up. First of all- where had his wonderful, lovely, loving, effusive daughter gotten the idea that she needed to _look pretty crying_ , what cruel madhouse monster had created that concept in her mind? And second, with a voice in the back of his head asking him why he would focus on such a trivial thing when Greta’s _entire sense of being was in jeopardy, caught in the clutches of beauty over anything_ , when in Shinou’s name had she seen Wolfram cry?

Yuuri had seen Wolfram cry for all of three seconds. And that, more than anything (he had feared admitting to himself when he was back on Earth, dazed at suddenly being an average Japanese adolescent once again) had chased him through the portal.

Greta was right. Wolfram, who had always been a painfully pretty person, had been particularly breathtaking when he cried, his eyes wet and pleading, wordlessly begging Yuuri to stay. It had been difficult, very difficult, to erase the sensation of confused guilt that assailed him whenever Wolfram’s green eyes and shaken ‘Yuuri!’ flashed through his mind, and his mother certainly hadn’t helped by going on and on about how she wanted to see his godfather and fiance again soon and when am I going to meet your daughter, Yuuri, Wolf-chan told me all about her! Ahhh, I can’t believe I’m already a grandma!

“Papa Yuuri?”

“Hm?” Yuuri smiled guiltily when he noticed Greta staring at him with her eyebrows drawn together, her eyes narrowed suspicious. He patted her curls, taking her hand. “Do you feel better?”

“Yep!” she beamed, stretching her leg out in front of her and staring at the clean new skin on her knee. “I’m hungry, let’s get something to eat!” She tugged him out of the room and all across the castle until they reached the kitchen.

Except Yuuri was stuck, now. Crying Wolfram was back at the center of his attention, and he couldn’t sort out the pieces as to why, but he knew something about it bothered him. It bothered him a lot, an itch under his skin that was impossible to scratch, a question he couldn’t ask because he didn’t know the shape of it. It followed him through lunch with Greta, through paperwork hour(s) with Gwendal, with his daily lessons with Gunter, right through to stress-relief pitching with Conrad.

“Is something the matter?” Conrad asked him kindly, his eyes warm and his smile slight as Yuuri threw another wonky pitch, the ball crashing into one of the colonnades far to Conrad’s left. 

Yuuri laughed awkwardly, bending his mitt between his hands, his brows bending upwards. His breath left him in a huff, and he ran his mitt over his hat. “It’s weird…”

“You can talk to me about anything,” Conrad reminded him softly, his smile ever-present as he picked the ball of the dusty ground. He tossed it up and down a few times before letting it settle in his palm, rubbing the side with his thumb.

Yuuri let his hand drop, hemming and hawing, puffing up his cheeks as he tilted his face up towards the fluffy clouds. “Greta was talking about Wolfram crying.”

Conrad’s blink was untranslatable. He straightened up, coming closer so they could talk without raising their voices. Unerringly polite or protective of family secrets, it was always up in the air. “And?” He prompted as Yuuri stared at his with a child’s guilt eyes.

“I don’t know,” he finished lamely, shrugging. He stared at the button on Conrad’s pocket flap with a strange expression, mulling it over. Ever-patient, Conrad waited. He made an excellent guardian, and Yuuri was the king he had chosen to serve from beginning to end, after all. Yuuri finally looked up at him, his brows tilted, chewing nervously on the lining of his cheek. “I mean, when did he cry?”

Conrad was mystified. Did Yuuri not think Wolfram cried? Everyone cried. Maybe not in public, certainly not in public, but never? “Do you find it strange that a father would cry in front of his daughter?” Conrad asked, sensitive of the way he framed the question.

Yuuri’s brow bent pensively as he considered the quandary. “It makes sense…” he muttered under his breath, stroking his chin. He planted his other hand on his hip in a very distinct pose, one Conrad would mention to Gunter. They had to train obvious tells like that out of the young king, and the sooner was the most effective. “He’s only cried in front of me that one time, so I guess I was surprised.”

“He doesn’t cry often anymore.” Yuuri’s head stuck up at that, his curious black eyes fixed firmly on Conrad’s face. The sudden attentiveness had Conrad smiling warmly. His Majesty was really like a hound some days. It made him want to give him a little morsel more. “Not like he used to.”

He stood up completely, abandoning whatever thought he had been nursing in his head to focus on Conrad instead. His lip tilted in a half-smile, always curious to find out something more about the mysterious three brothers that had become so entrenched in his life. “Wolfram used to cry a lot?”

“When he was little,” Conrad chuckled. His face sombered quickly though, his head tilted towards the upper windows of the castle. Wolfram’s blue uniform was visible in one towards the left as he sat by the sill and read where he could watch them practice. He wasn’t watching now, his golden curls pressed against the glass. “But someone told him lords aren’t supposed to show the people their tears, so he learned how to yell instead.” That, he had learned from Uncle Stoffel.

Yuuri’s head twisted up towards the young fire-wielder too. His dark eyes followed a long-fingered hand as it brushed golden strands behind Wolfram’s ear; some of the curls tumbled back over the hard slant of his cheekbone. “So he yells when he wants to cry, huh..?” Yuuri asked softly. The guilt started pouring in almost immediately, cold and liquid. Yuuri was vaguely aware of the way Conrad’s head whipped around to look at him. He squeezed and released his fists rhythmically, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip.

He’d always dismissed Wolfram’s tantrums as childish and envious ego. It hadn’t occurred to him that the blond’s puffed-out pride hid his wounds. Which. How- how hadn’t he? Didn’t Yuuri pride himself on looking past impressions of people to see what they really were like, what they really wanted, at heart? Wasn’t he the king who befriended the enemy because he believed they wanted nothing more than for their people to be happy?

And Wolfram had stood right beside him and let him wound him over and over?

And he hadn’t thought about it, because he’d been too entrenched in his fear of- what? His fear of…? Yuuri took a step back, his unseeing gaze dropping down to the ground. Wolfram’s feelings, right?

He never liked looking too closely at those, because he was afraid of the other thing. Obviously. Not the ‘Wolfram is hurt’ thing, no, the- the other one. ...The ‘Wolfram loves me’ thing.

Because he said it, didn’t he? Said it over and over with his ‘I’ll stand by you’s, his ‘I’m supposed to be at your side’s, his ‘I’ll die to protect you’s, his ‘finally caught you’s and yes even his ‘stop flirting with everyone you see!s’ which…

Which now Yuuri is starting to realize that, misinterpretive or not, Yuuri’s definitely paid more attention to everyone else in the room than Wolfram, more times than not, in an attempt to discourage the advances he never outright bothered to reject. (If there was a tradition for starting an engagement there was a tradition for ending one, damnit, but he never bothered to ask, just complained whenever Wolfram invited himself along.)

“Yuuri!”

His head came up so quickly he almost headbutted Conrad, who was holding him by the shoulders. The man was frowning, but having Yuuri’s gaze clear on him eased his concern. “Are you alright?” Conrad asked, now vaguely amused.

“I was just thinking about that time I made Wolfram cry,” Yuuri half-lied, scratching his cheek. “It didn’t feel very nice.”

Conrad’s mystified expression was back. After a few beats he smiled, dropping his mitted hand onto Yuuri’s head. “When you make someone cry, the only thing you can do is ask yourself what you could have done differently, and if that’s really something you wanted to do, then do it next time.” He leaned down into Yuuri’s eyesight, winking. “Otherwise it’s best to let it go.”

Yuuri peered at him through his bangs, his head titled, then turned to look at Wolfram in the window. Satisfied, Conrad took a few steps towards the courtyard entrance. “Think about it,” he suggested, tossing the baseball in his hand. Yuuri caught it without a thought, staring after him.

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony. Something lanced through him, panic squeezing his chest. They had told him to go. His mother would cry. He wasn’t from here. He-_

_He turned and fled into the portal, heading for home._

What could he have done differently? 

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony. Something lanced through him, panic squeezing his chest. They had told him to go. His mother would cry. He wasn’t from here. He-_

_If he stayed. Wolfram coming closer, dipping his head to hide his tears. Grabbing his collar as he always did, shaking it. “You scared us, you wimp.” Gunter throwing himself into the chaos. Was Gunter there? He hardly remembered. Probably yes? A cluster of people around them, bodies of his tall entourage. Wolfram crying with his face hidden, his fists shaking where they strain around Yuuri’s clothes, holding his breath in his chest so they can’t hear him._

He didn’t like that either. It wasn’t better. It would’ve been more of the same. It was Wolfram that was crying. So then, Wolfram?

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony._

_Grounding his feet. Facing Wolfram. Saying- what? “I’ll stay.” It was the same as the other choice. What would it matter who he said it to?_

Yuuri’s face tilted up towards the sky, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. 

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony._

_Grounding his feet. Facing Wolfram. Something else. Coming closer? Promising something?_

He was thinking backwards, getting stuck. Without really noticing he was doing it, Yuuri started to throw the baseball into his mitt, over and over, his dark eyes staring into nothing.

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony._

_What did he want? For Yuuri to stay, obviously._

Yuuri stared at Wolfram inside the memory of the moment. He imagined himself taking a breath, clearing it of everything but him and Wolfram. No time constraint, no clamoring voices, no fear. He could walk freely between worlds. Whenever the image of Wolfram’s tears had assaulted him, Yuuri had always tried to suppress it quickly, hating the uncomfortable feelings it stirred in him. It had always been a snapshot, an explosively powerful imagine that refused to unstick from his retina, but now that he gave it space to breathe it started to move.

_“What do you want?” He asked the imaginary Wolfram, his hands lax at his side. The golden-haired Mazoku didn’t reply as such. He blinked, a tear tracking down his left cheek. “Yuuri,” he repeated brokenly, phantomlike._

_“What do you want?” He asked again._

_“Yuuri,” Wolfram cried, not an answer but an address, and Yuuri had always heard the ‘please’ in it, even if he chose to ignore it, but it didn’t help him when he didn’t understand what the request actually was. “Please,” the Wolfram in his thoughts echoed._

_He stepped closer, cupping Wolfram’s cheeks with his hands and holding the mazoku’s face tilted so they faced each other exactly. “Please what?”_

_“Yuuri, please.”_

_“I’ll stay for you”_

_“Yuuri, please.”_

_“I don’t know what you want.”_

_“Yuuri please.”_

He’d seen that pose before. A charming man held a young lady in his arms. She cried beautifully, her lips tilted in a silent plea. Their breaths caught. Damn his brother's dating sims.

_Wolfram’s breath catching. Damn it all, Yuuri thought, pressing their mouths together._

Pause. Rewind.

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, his name ripped from the demon’s throat. He twisted on the spot, found himself confronted with luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony._

_He faced Wolfram. Stepped forward. Wolfram, shivering- “Yuuri, please.” Holding him gently, because you held people gently when they cried. Wolfram’s breath catching. Had he looked at Wolfram properly before? Sweeping him up, tilting his head back, pressing their mouths together, making a promise without words._

Pause. Rewind.

_“Yuuri!” Wolfram called, eyes luminous pools of green, shimmering with agony._

_Sweeping him up. Wolfram’s breath catching. Pressing their mouths together._

Yuuri slapped both hands over his burning cheeks as his entire face slowly turned an alarming shade of red.

What was the next thing? Step one- what could you have done differently? Step two- Is that something you’d like to do?

He had some sense that whatever was coming was something he’d been avoiding for a while, owning up to how hard he’d avoided facing the Wolfram question directly. It was an undeniable fact that his very first impression of Wolfram was that the man was beautiful, but anyone with eyes could see that. It didn’t mean Yuuri was attracted to him. He could tell Gunter was beautiful, too, and he had zero inclination to see the man naked. And he couldn’t argue that he had stayed as far away from any romantic notion re:the blond as possible purely because he was a man. He’d always dismissed that part of their relationship as weird other-world insanity. And it was hard to take Wolfram seriously when Wolfram was mad at him all the time.

Yuuri stopped in his tracks there, filtering back through those memories.

Oh.

They looked quite different in this light.

Yuuri’s head slowly tilted to the ground as he thought about all the times Wolfram had been angry, had seemed irrationally possessive, all the time that Yuuri had-

That Yuuri had dismissed him, rejected him, ignored him, avoided him…

_What can you do differently, and is it something you want to do next time?_

He was the demon king, damnit! And Wolfram was right, he was a wimp! He had to face this head on already. Yuuri took off his mitt, folding it around his baseball and leaving it in a storage chest as he went inside. Better not wait for another public scene for this conversation, or Wolfram wouldn’t forgive him.

Except there was this problem as Yuuri walked the halls, vaguely greeting whoever passed him but remembering none of it.

_Wolfram’s breath catching. Yuuri pressing their lips together._

It was just that, now that the image existed, he couldn’t focus on anything else.

_Breaths catching. Pressing their lips together._

Also, was it just him, or was it incredibly stuffy in here? He loosened the top few buttons on his silk uniform, pulling open the collar.

_Pressing their lips together._

He almost walked right into Wolfram as the blond tried to exit the library. Yuuri’s hands flashed out automatically, grasping either side of the doorframe so that Wolfram had nowhere to go. Wolfram cocked a finely-shaped eyebrow at him, crossing his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Can we talk?” Yuuri said at the same time, his eyes wide and hopeful.

Wolfram’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He eyed Yuuri tentatively, guarded. “About what?”

“About us.”

Wolfram’s green gaze dropped to the floor. His arms dropped to his sides, his hands curling into fists. He drew himself up for a moment but deflated again almost immediately, color leaching from him. Defeat curved the line of his shoulders. Yuuri stepped forward, closing the door behind him, enclosing them together.

“Yuuri,” Wolfram jumped in immediately, his voice small and resigned, “I know it’s customary to wait at least a day before asking for your gift, but- please do it all at once.”

Yuuri stared at him, as usual completely and unabashedly confused. “What?”

Wolfram’s fists shook at his sides. His face twisted into familiar lines of childish anger as he puffed himself up, tossing his head back and meeting Yuuri’s gaze head on. “Gunter told you it’s looked down upon to give someone their first gift and take it away immediately, right? Nobody will care if it’s you, Yuuri.” Wolfram faltered them, his lashes trembling, a telltale shimmer washing over his eyes. “Please don’t make me wait.” His chin jerked, and Yuuri stared.

Seeing it in person again made his stomach twist in a whole new, uncomfortable way. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Yuuri confessed awkwardly.

Wolfram stared back for a long minute. Was that fear, lurking? No, Wolfram wasn’t afraid of anything. Was that true either? Yuuri was starting to falter, overwhelmed by this new surge of confusing information. Gifts? Gunter?

Wolfram, pale, faltered backwards, sitting on the edge of a table and gripping the wood, knuckles white. “You’re not here to end the engagement?” He asked in a small voice, quiet to disguise its trembling.

Yuuri felt another wave of guilt crash into him.

_What can you do differently, and is it something you want to do next time?_

He stepped right into Wolfram’s space. He held the Mazoku’s face between his hands, stroking his thumb over a cheekbone, smiling in a way that he hoped was reassuring but was merely awkward instead. “I’m really not.”

Wolfram’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes wide and his mouth soft, looking up at Yuuri, his veneer cracked. He blinked and a single tear rolled down his face, swept away immediately by Yuuri’s thumb. His emerald eyes pled Yuuri wordlessly to be kind, Wolfram’s soft heart laid open to the king’s gaze.

Wolfram held his breath. Yuuri pitched on the edge of something. “Yuuri, please-”

“Can I-?” Yuuri interrupted artlessly. Wolfram jumped a little but remained stiff. “Sorry,” Yuuri followed up, bumping their foreheads together.

_Wolfram’s breath caught. Yuuri pressed their mouths together._

He was starting to get dizzy. “There’s a lot- a lot- of things I have to say,” he continued, too fast, stumbling on his own words. Wolfram stared at him, trembling with the urge to clam up or run, and all he could do was keep trying, because he wasn’t sure what he was doing but he was going to do it, damn all, no more stumbling along until he figured out the right thing to do. “I’m not sure what order to do it all in so can I just-” Yuuri bit down on his rambling, his breath leaving all in a rush. He paused, his gaze roving over Wolfram’s heart-shaped face. His dark eyes fixed finally on the plush curve of the mazoku’s mouth, a new obsession he couldn’t shake. He took a deep breath, preparing for the plunge. “Can I kiss you first? Is that ok?”

Wolfram, stunned, stared at him mutely. His hands abandoned the table, gripping Yuuri’s coat. The question shocked new tears into him, shaken out by the burst of confused relief flooding him. In no time he started to shake, a small but violent tremor that racked down to his toes.

Alarmed, Yuuri tried to step back and assess, but Wolfram’s grip tightened mercilessly, holding the king in place. “Please don’t tease me, Yuuri,” Wolfram begged behind clenched teeth, his voice strained.

“I’m not,” Yuuri muttered, a pretty moue shaping his mouth.

“Yuuri!” Wolfram complained, his head dipping. 

Now that wouldn’t do. Curving his hand around Wolfram’s chin, Yuuri tilted the lordling’s head back so that their eyes met again. Wolfram’s breath caught. Yuuri pressed their lips together.

Wolfram's skin was warm under his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the gift thing I have this headcanon that you break an engagement by asking for the first gift you gave the other person back, sort of like asking for the ring back. It can be symbolic too, like if on your first date you bought ramen then taking your fiance out for ramen is how you end it.
> 
> The point is to remind the person of when the love was fresh so they can make an emotionally informed decision.
> 
> But Yuuri's never given Wolfram anything, so he'd have to give something before he can take something back. And unsurprisingly, it's considered pretty cruel to give and ask back simultaneously.
> 
> anyway, I didn't think I'd get a chance to write it into anything so I did it here instead 'cause I'm crazy whoops
> 
> Anyway I hope you found the ending satisfying! Sorry to put in some confusing nonsequitors at the end ^^;


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and they get married or something

Staring in the mirror, Yuuri tugged on the high collar of his black coat a thousandth time, irritated by the way it stuck into the underside of his jaw. It wasn’t all that different from his usual silk uniform, at least not to his own eyes, but Gunter’s sigh and near collapse at the first sight of him suggested otherwise. Or, you know, Gunter was just overcome with the romance of it all. Something like that.

Yuuri smiled shyly at his own reflection, undoing the top button as he turned away. The door flew open, and he turned his head to see- Greta ran in, decked out in delicate ruffles, fresh blossoms braided into her hair, pulling Yozak in by the hand.

“Papa!” She cried, her arms open and held out to him. He picked her up, resting her on his hip. She snuggled against his cheek happily. “Beatrice is here, can I go play with her yet?!”

“After the ceremony,” he chuckled, glancing at Yozak. He wasn’t doing a particularly good job keeping her out of trouble, it seemed. The hem of her dress was dirty already. Not that he minded, but the state officials might have something to say about it.

“I must thank you, young man,” Yozak grinned, crossing his broad arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the doorframe. “You’re making me a lot of money today.”

“If anyone mentions that betting pool again I’m throwing them in the dungeon,” came Wolfram’s waspish voice. He entered, adjusting his new sword belt, plucking Greta from Yuuri and handing her off to Yozak. “Take her to the maids, they’ll clean her skirt.”

“That would be a strong start for a new royal consort,” Yozak laughed.

“What’s new about it!” Wolfram yelled, shoving the redhead into the hallway. He leaned in to kiss Greta on the forehead before shutting the door.

His usual blue uniform had been replaced with a finely-made silk ensemble specifically for the wedding, and since it was the Maou’s wedding, tradition dictated that it also be entirely black. Even on Earth Wolfram had avoided wearing the color- he wouldn’t abandon etiquette no matter where he was. Wolfram sighed, turning to face Yuuri. The outfit offset his pale skin and golden hair, made his green eyes practically glow. Speechless, Yuuri stared at him, a heat starting to bloom in his breast. Wolfram cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s bad luck to see each other before the ceremony?” Yuuri mumbled, barely getting his tongue to work the way he wanted.

“What? That’s stupid,” Wolfram scoffed, as bemused by Earth’s superstitions and customs as Yuuri was by Shin Mazoku’s. He stepped closer, rebuttoning Yuuri’s collar. Before, he would’ve done so brazenly, his chest puffed, daring anyone to tell him it wasn’t his place. The once ever-present edge of anger, ready to ignite, was absent now. It made Yuuri feel guilty again when he noticed it consciously, but today he was too distracted by how stunning Wolfram looked in black.

Without saying a word, he curved his hand around the back of Wolfram’s head. Wolfram tilted his face up to meet Yuuri’s gaze. The question posed on the edge of his lips never escaped, swept away by the wet edge of Yuuri’s tongue.

Wolfram’s sigh offered Yuuri an opportunity he wasn’t going to ignore. He hooked his free arm around Wolfram’s waist, pulling them flush against each other. They kissed lazily, Wolfram’s arms looping around his neck, wet and soft and full of promise. Yuuri trailed small kisses along the column of Wolfram’s throat; the blond tilted his head back to give him room, curling his fingers into Yuuri’s dark hair.

“Why don’t we just skip the ceremony and have our own?” Yuuri suggested, scraping his teeth behind Wolfram’s ear, just where he knew the Mazoku liked it. Wolfram shivered in answer, his grip tightening, but he shook his head before laying it on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Don’t you dare take this away from me,” he uttered, quiet, but Yuuri had practice now and he detected the tremor beneath it. He took a step back, taking Wolfram’s face between his hands and tilting it up to him. Sure enough, a wet sheen had glossed over the fire-wielder’s emerald eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Yuuri complained, leaning their foreheads together, gently stroking Wolfram’s cheekbones with his thumbs, “you know I can’t handle it when you cry.”

That surprised a laugh out of Wolfram, who flattened his palms over Yuuri’s hands. “I know. Wimp.” Smiling, Wolfram stepped back into Yuuri, looping his arms around his torso and hugging him close. “...I didn’t think this day would come.”

Yuuri grimaced guiltily. “Sorry.” Wolfram shrugged against him, shifting somehow closer. They stood in the silence for a while, breathing together. It was true that Wolfram’s outbursts had settled- a lot- since the day in the library, but Yuuri had also been spending a whole lot more time paying attention to him, introducing him to people as his fiance, asking him for his company instead of complaining when he showed up, pulling him into conversations instead of excluding him from them. Treating him like a chosen part of his life instead of an unfortunate attachment.

As if sensing the train of Yuuri’s thoughts, Wolfram flicked him in the ear.

“Ow!” Yuuri slapped a hand over the abused flesh. “What was that for?”

“You were brooding again,” Wolfram answered, matter of fact, as he released Yuuri. He smiled softly, tugging Yuuri’s clothes straight, brushing dents and folds out of the young king’s sleeves. “I should go before Gunter has a coronary.”

“Okay.” Wolfram kissed Yuuri once more, a gentle touch on the corner of his mouth, and stepped away. Yuuri took his hands before he could leave completely, and he grinned when Wolfram faced him with an unsaid question in the tilt of his head.

“I love you,” Yuuri chirped, kissing Wolfram’s knuckles. Pink dusted the mazoku’s cheeks, coloring the bridge of his nose. Yuuri, pleased, bounced on the balls of his feet. “Greta’s sleeping in her own room tonight, right?”

Pink turned to red very quickly. “Yuuri!” Wolfram shouted, slapping the king’s arm. Yuuri’s answering laugh rang into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'M DONE FOR REAL THIS TIME


End file.
